


But Sometimes We Will Fall

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2018-01-20 01:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1491835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell is in the eye of the beholder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But Sometimes We Will Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for The Hunter's Soul table for spn_25. The prompt I used was _Silence_.

Sam watches Dean sleep. Facing his brother in bed, he watches every rise and fall of Dean's chest, slows and paces his breaths until his inhales match Dean's exhales. He wants to touch Dean, splay his hand open on Dean's chest and feel the warmth of his skin, let Dean's heartbeat reverberate through all the aching spaces inside him. But Dean's been sleeping poorly, reliving nightmares that he claims not to remember in the morning. So Sam settles for breathing Dean's breaths, settles for giving his to Dean. Pretends that the air between them isn't haunted by the ghosts of every promise Sam had sworn and then failed to keep. 

Sam remembers. Him and Dean, barely an hour ago. Remembers the frantic counterpoint of their joined bodies. Dean above him, Dean inside him, moving slow and deep and sure, as if nothing had changed at all. As if he hadn't shed tears and flesh and dreams in Hell. As if he hadn't climbed out of the grave Sam had dug for him. As if they both couldn't still feel the dirt and gore under their fingernails. 

Dean isn't telling, and neither is Sam. They don't talk about anything anymore, and Sam's still trapped in his own Hell, just like he knows Dean is too. There's too much blood whenever he closes his eyes, pulsing-gushing and he can almost touch it, the taste-smell of it imprinted in his brain. Vivid and dark, it flows in his veins, twists in his gut and stains everything red.

Sam looks at Dean's amulet, hanging safely from his neck again. A piece of Sam that Dean carries with him constantly, against his skin, close to his heart. The only piece of Dean that Sam had carried with him for months. Months that had been like decades, and Sam can still feel it there, the weight and shape of it too heavy and solid around his own neck. 

It hadn't been enough. Nothing but Dean could ever be enough. And now, now Dean's back, but he isn't all here. Sam isn't all here; both of them have been eaten, chewed raw and broken and then spit out, but something, _something_ , was left behind in the belly of the beast. 

Sam's gaze wanders over Dean's body in the semidark of the room. Recalling more than seeing: Dean's scars are gone. His skin is perfect, unmarred, beautiful. Sam wonders what lies underneath it now, where all the concealed marks are, wonders what blemishes and fears define Dean now. It used to be that Sam had known them all, and in that knowing had named and owned them all. Sam's marks on Dean had run deeper than any other then. Dean's marks on Sam still run deeper than anything now (forever) and he hopes (funny how he still can) that the same holds true for his brother. 

It hurts, the way they fit now. Their edges are too sharp. They keep cutting each other, will keep cutting each other, bruising each other with fists and kisses alike as they try to wear each other smooth again.

Dean sleeps. Sam watches. Listens as Dean's breathing changes, and like an echo, Sam's does too. It's the witching hour, and there are horrors playing behind Dean's closed eyelids. 

Sam keeps his eyes wide open.


End file.
